


The Honour of the Chapter

by PMC317



Category: Warhammer, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Adeptus Astartes - Freeform, Battle, Canon-Typical Violence, Imperium of Humanity, Murder, Other, Space Marines, Violence, War, War Crimes, curbstomp battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:41:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25774546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PMC317/pseuds/PMC317
Summary: A Space Marine assault force attacks an Imperial world to restore the honour of their Chapter. The Space Marines are terrifying, inhuman, murderous, monsters.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	The Honour of the Chapter

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Thomas Parrott's headcanon for Space Marines. Check him out at @parrottd on twitter!

The windows blew in, sending shards of coloured armaglass flying across the room. Windowframes, bolted deep into the reinforced walls, ripped free, crumpling and twisting as they fell. Dust and debris showered through the holes left by the stained glass windows, covering the ruins of the room in a choking, swirling, cloud.

Seconds later, the pressure wave swept back across the building, air rushing in to fill the space left by the blast. The walls shook again, chunks of plaster falling free followed by pieces of ceiling, air ducts, and light fittings. Somewhere, a siren wailed, howling its note of alarm in a distorted shriek that mingled with the crashing, tearing noise of collapsing structures and falling facades.

It was the first notice of the attack. A single, precisely aimed orbit to surface strike, fired from the Victoria Aeternam's main batteries, had erased the main generatorium for the governor's mansion. The shockwave from the detonation of the reactor had levelled much of the Central District of Thorvestant, but the heavily reinforced mansion had - mostly - survived.

It took the governor's guard time to respond. Time that they did not have. Moving slowly, stunned and disoriented from the huge explosion, the survivors staggered here and there, some clear-headed enough to understand that this was not an accident, most bleeding from injuries ranging from superficial to fatal. A few managed to make it to their assigned defence posts just as the first drop pods thundered through the smoke cloud and into the gardens.

As their doors banged open, explosive bolts firing at once, a desultory fire came from a handful of palace guard and some automated defence works that had activated with the sudden loss of main generator power. Missiles and heavy fire streamed out from the first wave of pods, hammering the defences, and raining across the walls of the mansion itself. It lasted a minute. In that time, the few soldiers who had fired died or cowered, unable to stand against the onslaught of bolt shells, explosive impacts, and streams of cannon fire.

The silence that followed did not last. Within seconds, the sudden screaming of more drop pods echoed across Thorvestant, and this time they landed within a few yards of the walls of the palace itself. From them poured the bulky forms of powered armour suits, moving with an incredible speed. Space Marines!

They thundered forwards, their huge mass leaving stamping footprints across the devastated earth of the gardens and the dust-covered flagstones of pathways alike. Fire discipline was total - their helmets' prey sight indicated life signs through walls, smoke, and dust clouds. Single shots barked, roared, and banged. A Marine with a power fist smashed a hole through the main wall, ripping and tearing apart steel rod and ferrocrete with ease. Others tossed grenades through holes that were once windows, then leapt into the building.

More Marines fanned out, securing the perimeter, forming a skirmish line among the rubble and the drop pods. As the clock ticked on, the likelihood of organised resistance increased. It paid to take precautions. From outside, enhanced senses and auspexes together tracked the progress of the assault teams as they moved through the palace, methodically, inexorably, killing indiscriminately.

Inside the palace, the slaughter was almost beyond belief. The Marines moved with lethal precision, obliterating what pathetic resistance was offered by the now entirely shattered guard, and killing without mercy. Here, a room full of cowering servants screamed as a flamer burst enveloped them in liquid fire, their skin blistering and melting, their lungs cooking. There, a child, covered in dust and blood, blown apart by a single bolt shell.

The Angels of Death had come to Thorvestant Palace and they would not stop until they found their target and achieved their objective. They gave no quarter and asked for none. They killed, and killed, and killed again. Servitors fell where they stood, cut apart by knives or chainblades. Surrendering soldiers were dispatched with casual dismissiveness. Blood soaked the Marines' armour, mingling with dust and soot as the building began to burn.

In the bunker underneath the governor's wing, panic was rising. One by one, security screens began to blink out as the fire destroyed more and more of the already broken building. On the few that remained, only devastation showed. Corpses, smoke, and the relentless movement of the Marines.

"They've come for me," screamed the governor, "they've come for me!"

Around them, the hand-picked bodyguard team exchanged glances. They were still trying to access the escape tunnel, but with the main generator out and the mansion on fire, they were so far unable to convince the machine-spirit that allowed access to let them through. Their tech-adept had been killed in the initial blast, reduced to particulates and molten metal by the generator explosion. It looked like they would have to fight.

Above, the Marines converged on their objective. The squads moved to surround the target room, blocking the potential paths for any counter-assault. Then the main assault force moved up, stacking on either side of the armoured blast door.

For the first time since the assault went in, the Marines' voxes crackled.

"Charges attached. Ready entry. Ave Imperator."

In their heads-up displays, a tiny number began to count down. They braced, locking their armour in place, shifting their stances to allow the blast to wash over them. The melta charges beeped, then disappeared in a flash of shocking, actinic white. The door, huge and thick, designed to withstand a determined assault by any normal attacking force, exploded inwards in a shower of molten steel and plascrete.

Even before the edges cooled, the Marines were through the doorway, bolters up, sweeping the corners of the room. There was no resistance.

In the middle of the room, on a raised plinth, under the shattered remains of spotlights, and coated in plaster dust and chunks of ceiling, lay a magnificent weapon. Finely crafted by talented artisans and decorated by the most skilled artists of its time, the blade lay on a smoking velvet cushion. It shone, even in the smoke filled room. Carefully, reverentially, the assault force commander walked over to the Sword of Dawn, locking its pistol to its battle-plate as it did so.

Its armoured hands reached up, undoing the magnetic locks that held its beautiful war-helm in place. Its primary and secondary eyelids blinked rapidly, protecting it from the foul air. Its misshapen face was pitted and scarred from decades of war, bionic augmentations and implants distorting the shape of its head.

"At last," it whispered, reaching out, "the honour of the Chapter is restored."

The Sword of Dawn seemed to fit perfectly into the Marine's hand, and the blade gleamed and shimmered as it swung it through an expert series of drills. Finally, satisfied, it slid the weapon into the jewelled scabbard that hung, empty, at its waist, and replaced its helmet.

Once more the vox-net crackled into life, as the commander turned and walked out of the room.

"Objective secured. Imperator protegit."

As swiftly as they had come, the Marines disengaged from the shattered remains of the palace, pulling out in a textbook example of battle discipline. The security cordon remained in place until the Thunderhawks arrived, then collapsed back into the open jaws of the transporters. The last act of the Marine force was to destroy the drop pods with another, single, orbit to ground strike that turned the landing zone into a glass-sided crater and collapsed the front third of the palace itself.

Deep underground, the governor stared at the view screens in disbelief.

"They came for a sword? They destroyed my palace for a sword?"

"No," said a strange voice behind them, "they destroyed your palace for the honour of their Chapter."

The governor turned, and collapsed in shock. Their bodyguard detail were dead, killed so quickly and quietly that they themselves had had no time to react. Their personal aide stood, loose-limbed and deadly, a new face staring at them with dispassionate contempt.

"I, on the other hand, am here to deliver the Emperor's Justice."

The governor opened their mouth to scream, and died, as the assassin carefully and precisely kicked them in the side of the head hard enough to crush their skull and destroy their brain.

"So die all those who defy the Emperor's will," said the assassin.

Far above, the Victoria Aeternam moved out of orbit, unaware and uncaring of the assassin or the governor's fate. The honour of the Ultramarines had been restored. The Sword of Dawn, missing for three hundred years, stolen from the fallen body of Captain Julian of the Sixth Company during the Battle of Storvesan, was home at last.

Aboard the Strike Cruiser, the assault commander stood, naked save for a loincloth, and delivered its report.

"Local resistance was sporadic and fleeting, Sibling-Captain," said the assault commander, "and all who stood in our way were crushed as per the teachings of the Codex Astartes. It reports that its siblings suffered no casualties or injuries and munitions expenditure was 3% below expected. It further reports, Sibling-Captain, that the loss of the drop pods is outweighed by the return of the Sword of Dawn. Finally, Sibling-Captain, it reports that many of the opposing human force behaved extremely irrationally. It is its opinion that many of the humans we encountered may have been non-combatant."

"Irrelevant, Sibling-Sergeant. You performed above adequately. You honour the Codex and the Chapter by your actions. It will permit you to wear a commemorative mark on your heraldry in recognition of the successful execution of your task. It dismisses you."

"Yes, Sibling-Captain."

The assault commander turned, and walked away. It needed to see to its wargear, and make sure its serfs had cleaned the gore and grime from the battle-plate. It gave no more thought to the battle it had fought earlier, for it had no need to dwell on the past. There was only the next battle, and the next, and the next, until it died, for the honour of the Chapter.


End file.
